When a Flower Blossoms in Suna
by Unfortunate October
Summary: He knew his daughter well...The girl that had run off with that flower in hand was no offspring of his. The transfixed gaze she had set on that flower was something unnatural...He was afraid with its revival would come the loss of his legacy. Kankuro/OC
1. Prologue, The Desert Flower

_**W**hen a **F**lower **B**lossoms in **S**una_

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_**Disclaimer: **I do not own Naruto._

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_**Prologue**  
_

**C**ome closer so I can kiss you."

The tone of the command was nonexistent as the hot wind blew into the young face, carrying the words of her husband. She reached delicately to brush the sand from her nose, pausing when his fingers met hers. She looked down, trying to see what had caught his attention, but the tattoo on her face was foreign to her. She only ever saw it when she bathed or caught her reflection - when she saw her mother or grandmother, buried beneath tribal traditions. She frowned slightly at his expression, unable to tell if he favored the distinct impression or disliked it. He moved his hands away before repeating himself.

Instantly the new wife bowed to fulfill her husband's request, closing her eyes to the soft sensation of his lips against hers. She opened her eyes when the pressure ceased, lacing her thin fingers through his. "I'll take care of you," he promised.

"I'll take care of you." She retorted. They sat together in silence for many moments before exclaiming in submission: "let's take care of each other!"

"Okay," She accepted the brittle desert flower he handed her, clasping her hands gently around the dead blossom. He placed his hands on top of hers, watching the blue chakra flow from his fingers. His wife smiled brightly as the blossom swelled, revived, and sat in her hands as the perfect symbol of promise. If she ever forgot, he would remind her - time and time again.

She kissed him again before grasping the stem and running down the dusty alley. A nearby peddler sighed as he watched the dirty children play, eyes following them until they were out of sight. He returned to his business of pushing his broken cart and displaying one-of-a-kind pieces of pottery. He was proud to see the two children of the traveling Rurousha displaying their talents and finding adequate interest in them. What troubled him was the desert flower - the fact that they'd rather breathe life into it than the clan's most prestigious treasures found in the nursery. He knew his daughter well - he had seen her cry and shout and mock. The girl that had run off with that flower in hand was no offspring of his. The transfixed gaze she had set on that flower was something unnatural for the Rurousha clan. It was something that had been bred out of them. Such expressions and thoughts caused destruction - destruction of traditions and pride.

He was afraid with it's revival would come the loss of his legacy.

-

_Hello - U-O here. A fiction that happens to be Suna-centric, I suppose. It'll probably be updated slowly, if at all, seeing as school is very burdensome - though winter break is soon so I may be able to get some chapters up during that time. No, the fanfiction is not completely about OCs, though there are a few the phenomenal sand siblings will make their debute in the next chapter. (Whenever the next chapter happens to come - seeing as I lack a plot...)_


	2. I, Today Insults Mean Love

_**W**__hen a __**F**__lower __**B**__lossoms in __**S**__una_

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_**Disclaimer: **__I do not own Naruto._

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-_** I **_-

**T**he dry air left his skin with an unwanted kiss, the hot summer wind blowing against his uncovered face. The shinobi narrowed his eyes against the sand particles, guiding the edge of his knife with his thumb, carefully carving the details of his latest puppet. He sighed softly as he stretched his legs across the path, bending over to inspect his craftsmanship.

"Hey!"

Kankuro glanced up when he heard the sound of sandals shuffling in the dirt. He lowered his knife, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He reclined, hoping the voice calling would keep going and seek out someone else. "Yes?" Kankuro answered when the cause of the low dust cloud paused before him.

The stranger didn't answer right away, instead inspecting Kankuro's face. Satisfied with his appearance, she managed, "I have a delivery for you," before licking her lips.

Past the blinding shine of the sun, Kankuro could make out the shape of a person leaning over him. He blinked until the white faded enough for him to make out a dark face - eyebrows knitted together, a scrunched nose lost beneath bandages. The child hand a hand on one of her wide hips, her glittering eyes somewhat severe. Kankuro frowned when she shifted, crouching by his side. He turned, his hair blowing slightly by the breeze. Who he had thought was a child happened to be reasonably older - a girl around his age, or at least a teenager. Her physique and critical eyes led him to his mistake in age; she was short but carried enough muscle and womanly stature to allow him to grant her the title of adolescence.

"A delivery?"

"It's face paint." She extended her hands, revealing an exquisitely crafted pot. Kankuro stared at it for many moments, his brows furrowing as he glanced into her now-earnest gray eyes. "Wh-?"

"Paint for that doll?" She opened the lid of the pot and glanced into it before tilting her head, bangs falling into her eyes. Kankuro scowled.

"This is a puppet."

"Where are the strings? Without strings it's a d-"

"Don't touch it!" Kankuro snapped, too slow to push her hand away, her hand moving faster than he had expected. He shoved her out of the way, barely able to save her from the shower of kunai knives. She huffed, the wind leaving her chest in a gust, her coughing deep as she gasped to replace her lost air with stale dirt. She sneezed and rolled over, wiping the dust from her eyes before sitting up, narrowing her amber eyes, the dark orbs finding no amazement in the weaponry of the puppet. "Where are you from?" Kankuro mused aloud, wandering to retrieve his scattered knives. Everyone he knew of knew not to touch anything of his - especially his puppets. Most people eyed them warily when they saw him around the village with them, whereas this girl couldn't be fast enough to touch it and carelessly endanger herself. She didn't answer right away, quirking her brow as she tried to piece together the cracked pot in her hands. The violet paint stained her bandages. She mumbled her reply as she brought a dripping finger to her mouth, tugging the bandage loose with her teeth, sucking the purple stain from the material. Kankuro wrinkled his nose as he watched her, alerting her with his disgusted expression.

"It's only a crushed herb - it's bitter but it's good for your organs." She flexed her fingers before standing, disregarding the dust on her already dirtied skirt. Kankuro frowned at her, shrugging as he shoved his knives back into the crude chest cavity of his puppet.

"I'm from here," her voice surprised him, causing him to pause. She gestured down the way she had come. "I live-"

"You're a member of the Rurousha clan, aren't you?" Kankuro shut the wooden compartment loudly. He knew many of them to have dark skin and disregard their appearances - he assumed the girl to be from such a clan. They were probably the only people capable of creating fine arts while living in their own waste. Since they had moved into Suna the stench of the alleys could only be attributed to their appearance. He couldn't smell anything from the girl, but her disheveled hair, brown complexion, and reckless curiosity towards his puppet left him enough to speculate her origin. "Figures."

"Figures," she repeated tonelessly, sighing as she crouched to pick up the remaining pottery shards. Untying her sash from her waist, she used the torn material to hold the broken pieces together. "I'm sorry - I'll get more and bring it right to you..."

Kankuro stepped past her, causing her to pause and glance at him, her face expressionless in response to his scowl. "When exactly?" Kankuro asked roughly, irritated by her distracted expression.

"Later today."

"I have a meeting later today. And I'll be leaving for a mission as after that is over with... I can come by your shop and get it just before I leave."

"It'll be ready by then," She bowed as she stood, finally reaching to straighten her skirt, smearing the stain along her hem. "My name is Fukiko Rurousha- if you can't find me then ask around - my father's stand has no sign."

Kankuro smirked, narrowing his eyes at her bandaged nose and stained skirt. "I'll find you."

She shrugged, turning back towards the way she had come. "Ask around," she repeated over her shoulder. Kankuro watched her leave before sighing and heaving his puppet over his shoulder, starting back towards the Kazekage's office. He could always tell how the day would end by his tone of referral in regards to his brother. If Gaara was indeed Gaara than he'd finish the day in a generally appealing mood - maybe even enjoying himself. If Gaara was Kazekage he'd either come home bruised and tired from a mission of be irritated soon after the first reference of his brother as such. He was proud of his younger brother, no matter how infuriating the position tended to be at times. Kankuro loved his brother - something he displayed through the act of hugs or playful miniature puppets left on his desk - something he never would have done five years ago. His family had come a long way from their childhood, but as the Kazekage's brother Kankuro had to fulfill many expectations that could have easily faded and died away with his father's assassination.

He scowled, pausing in the middle of the pathway and closing his eyes, tilting his head back to expose his neck to the warmth of the sun. Had his family always defined him? When he was the Kazekage's son he was expected to do well. When he was a monster's brother he was expected to be bitter and cruel and scornful. Now that he was the Kazekage's brother her was expected to be almost as good as him. Kankuro kept walking, shoving one hand into his pocket, his clenched fist heavy against his leg while his hands strained to keep the thick wooden arms of the puppet clasped together to keep it from slipping off his shoulder. Almost as good as Gaara. Almost. He couldn't be nearly as good as Gaara - at least not in the eyes of the people. He was his bodyguard and his advisor but he would never hold the protection of the people in his palm. At least not in the same fashion his brother did. But that was Gaara's dream - something he was proud to see and happy to know that he had. It wasn't the same thing for Kankuro - though he wanted to protect Suna it wasn't his absolute passion. What that happened to be he had yet to find out.

"Kankuro."

Kankuro glanced up at his brother's voice, the corners of his mouth twitching in acknowledgement as he entered his office. He sighed as he set his puppet on the floor, taking a seat before the desk and removing his cap, running a hand through his hair.

"Have you finished it?"

Kankuro would have been disturbed by his brother's curiosity if not for the fact that Gaara seemed to be making a genuine effort to create an outwardly closer relationship with him. He was actually slightly entertained - since his brother had started the attempt shortly after Temari had made arrangements to have housing in Konoha. (Where she tended to spend most of her time; haven forgotten the fact that she was supposed to return to Suna every month and only visit Konoha for a few days at a time.)

"I'm almost finished. The joints are still too stiff and I haven't poisoned the weapons yet - I got interrupted by a delivery girl."

"Ah," Gaara smiled as he returned to his seat behind his desk, opening a drawer and producing a file, handing it over to Kankuro. Kankuro opened it, glancing over the edge of the paper when he saw Gaara's hand in his peripheral vision. He smiled slightly as he watched his brother reorganize the puppets on his desk. He quickly returned his gaze to the report before Gaara could take note of his observation - it wasn't something he would have wanted Kankuro to see. He was supposed to carelessly use them as paperweights or accidentally lose them. The unsaid code of their relationship was ridiculously complicated but comforting. It amused the both of them that now, after growing closer, they still felt the need to conceal their affections for one another. "This is all I wanted to give you so you can finish your puppet."

Kankuro nodded, standing as he closed the file. "I'll review this first and then finish it - I think he'll be a fine addition to my collection." Kankuro grinned as he held the puppet up, displaying it for his brother. Gaara shrugged, opening his drawer. "I think you're getting worse, actually. Sasori is your best puppet and you had nothing to do with making him." His words received a snort in response. Kankuro pulled the puppet over his shoulder again before starting out the door. Once out of his office, Kankuro grinned.

Gaara liked it.

_I hope it wasn't too bad. I haven't written fanfiction in quite some time. Well - an introduction of my original character and some conversation among the siblings. The time is set two years after Shippuden - so Kankuro is twenty and Gaara is eighteen. I'd like to think they've gotten time to become much closer but still are unable to display it outwardly due to personalities and awkwardness. Anyway, that's it. Everything will be pretty vague until I settle on a plot._


	3. II, Preparation Without Opportunity

_**W**__hen a __**F**__lower __**B**__lossoms in __**S**__una_

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_**Disclaimer: **__I do not own Naruto._

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-_** II **_-

**S**he walked slowly through the village, her chin raised as she entered her clan's compound, the scowls of many as burdensome as the thick sweat that had collected on the back of her neck. Though she disliked walking through the village she felt the need to, It helped her remember what else existed behind the crumbling walls of her clan's prison.

"Ah, what is all that?"

Fukiko winced at her father's voice, revealing the pieces of the broken pot to him. "I'm sorry-"

"I made that especially for the Kazekage's brother. Now what am I supposed to do?"

"The other pots you have are just as nice, father. Besides, he didn't even notice it."

"You broke it in front of him?" His exasperation broke into a tired sigh as he grabbed her by her shoulder and directed her towards the cart. "You're making the next one. Take care of this."

"Sure..." She puckered her lips as her father lumbered past her, toes swollen, shoulders hunched. She smiled at the sight of him, lowering her eyes sadly before putting the broken pot on the cart and pushing it down the uneven path. Those sloped shoulders had carried her around, had lifted her to see fellow clansmen spar like they had in their prime, to see the setting sun. She had danced on those swollen toes, dropped tools on them when they had slipped out of her small, young hands. She felt comforted to hug his beaten frame every day. Her father's defeat was sad, but familiar. It was pathetic, but she would have felt discomforted to ever see him physically strong. Though the man lacked force, he had a presence. He was as free as the breeze, he laughed heartily and smiled sincerely. Even though he was a poor man he found much to enjoy, and though he now lacked the prestige that had once been granted to his traveling ancestors, he was as bold in his thoughts as any warrior.

"Back already?"

Fukiko paused before her home, standing on the tips of her toes to look over the gate, glancing down at her mother and nodding before directing her attention to the sandy ground. She positioned the cart against the wall of her home before joining her mother in the garden behind it. She pushed the gate open slightly, her other hand on the crumbling structure of her home. Her mother was bent over a plant, her hands on the ground, her eyes emotionless. "Shinzui was looking for you."

"Was he?" She knelt next to her mother, shifting before tugging at a plant. She struggled to wrench the roots from the dry ground. She paused at the sensation of her mother's hands on her own, starting to pull again. Once the plant was loosened and out of the ground, Fukiko took care to brush the dirt from her hands, unwrapping her bandaged fingers.

"Why do you insist on doing that to yourself?"

"It doesn't hurt anymore."

"I remember when it did," her mother took care to tie the long roots into a knot, dropping a seed in the now vacant space. "You'd hold your tears until Shinzui was gone. You'd come here to cry."

"I'm not a child anymore," Fukiko glared spitefully at her mother, her eyes focused on the tattoo across the bridge of her nose. She gathered the plant in her cut hands, going quickly to her father's tools, sitting in the street and grinding the plant, watching the people - second citizens of Suna, her tortured kin. They passed through the slums like trapped souls.

"Fukiko?"

She glanced up, smiling.

"What happened to your bandages?"

"They were wet. I'll put on some new ones after this." Fukiko reached to retrieve a gourd of water from the cart, pouring it in the ground herb before mixing it with her finger. She winced at the sound of knees popping as her friend crouched to meet her face. "_How_ old are you, Shinzui?"

"Don't make fun of me," he rolled his eyes before sitting next to her. "My knees have been popping since I was eight, you know."

"I know," she smiled before licking her finger, reaching for a plain pot to pour the mixture into. Fukiko sighed as she set the pot down on the cart, glancing at Shinzui. "You were looking for me?"

"Yeah - I wanted to know if you wanted to practice."

Fukiko eyed him, smiling at his shinobi gear. "As long as we stay here so I can complete my delivery," she nodded towards the cart before standing, offering her hand for Shinzui. He grabbed her wrist, causing her to stumble with his weight as he used her to pull himself up, grinning as he ruffled her hair. Fukiko scowled up at him before waving him away. "Give me a minute to change."

"Sure."

Fukiko removed her civilian clothes slowly, until she was standing naked in the room she shared with her parents. She held the dirtied clothes tightly in her hands, her eyes focused on the bag by her pillow.

_"What's this?" Her father asked, alerted by the girl's secretive motives. He stood and snatched the bag from her as she tried to hide it, opening it and peering inside, removing a shuriken and staring at her._

_"What are you doing, Fukiko?"_

_"Shinzui and I are going to train at the academy. We're going to become shinobi."_

_"Shinobi? Shinzui would have made a fine Rurousha warrior, that's for sure - but a ninja? And you? You, fighting? You make such beautiful art, Fukiko-"_

_"Father," The little girl stood, taking back her bag and lowering her eyes. Her vision was narrow and limited. She was young and foolish, this she understood. She was innocent and hopeful, but she couldn't ignore the disappointment in her father's voice, nor could she ignore the way other villagers looked at her and her clansmen. They had fallen far from their former glory. They had been a clan of talented artisans, of strong, proud warriors. They had moved the earth with each of their steps, they had traveled from land to land, leaving their impression anywhere they stood. They had come from some noble spirit, from some fantastic lineage. Now they crawled through the slums and drank and sang and completed menial jobs._

_"I was born here, in this place. I haven't made any pilgrimage around the nomad's circle as you and mother have. My family is poor, our name is, at best, dirt saturated with their spit. They used to pee on us, they laugh at us, they hate us." Her hands shook as she clutched the bag tighter, staring at her feet with such intensity that her vision blurred. "Father, Grandfather was a great man. He led the Rurousha here. He was a warrior, but he renounced his ways in order to bring his people to a safe home. We have wild spirits, we have artistic gifts, we are a wonderful people - but in Suna we're nothing better than garbage. We're worse than garbage. At least garbage may be found to have other uses, at times._

_"I want... I want our home to have a true roof," she managed, finally able to raise her head, gazing up at the sky through the holes in the makeshift roof. "I want your art to be displayed in places, I want mother to smile again. Shinobi are proud people - shinobi bring pride and honor to their families. Shinzui and I will do that for the Rurousha. We will become warriors like our grandfathers - we'll just be allied with Suna."_

_"They'll never take you seriously," her father finally laughed, patting her head as he smiled. "But go ahead, if you want to. I won't tell you to be careful because they wouldn't trust you enough to put you in harm's way. And continue to practice making your pottery."_

_"Yes, father." _

Her fishnet top pinched at her shoulders as she pulled it over her head, twisting until it felt comfortable against her skin. Fukiko stood, her hand in her bag as she stared sightlessly at the corner of the room. Her head snapped towards a shuffling near the door. "Get out!" She hissed.

"Sorry," Shinzui stepped farther into the door, keeping his eyes low. "We used to bathe together, you know."

"I've grown a bit since then," Fukiko retorted, pulling her shirt over her head before reaching for her jacket, slipping into the lightweight material and grabbing her skirt. She pulled on her skirt, fastening it to her jacket before pulling on a pair of shorts beneath it, readjusting her skirt and wrapping her thigh. She finished equipping herself, scowling at her friend as she shoved the now empty bag beneath her pillow, mumbling through the bandages in her hand as she wrapped her fingers. "I've finished."

"You look nice." Shinzui smirked before bobbing out the door. Fukiko rolled her eyes as she pulled on her gloves, starting after him. They bound up the side of the buildings and onto roofs opposite each other. Shinzui crouched, tossing a shuriken. Fukiko dodged easily, spinning out of the way before flipping, pushing off of the roof, aiming towards Shinzui, her long knife slipping from her billowing sleeve.

-**[**_**!**_**]**-

"Fukiko?" Kankuro stepped lightly as he walked down the street, fists balled in his pockets. He frowned at the plants littering the streets and the men bowed over toys and other little objects.

"Fukiko?" Kankuro called again as he entered the ending of an alleyway, looking around. He sighed as he started back up the length of the compound, jumping back in time to avoid a kunai knife. He looked up at the source of the attack, drawing back in a fighting stance, narrowing his eyes at the two shadows darting along a roof. "Fuki-?"

"Wait, Shinzui!" The girl dropped from the roof, spinning away from the shower of sand that accompanied her decent. Kankuro frowned in recognition.

"Hi, I have your paint," she slid her knife back up her sleeve, pushing her hair from her sweat dampened neck before starting towards the cart. Kankuro followed her, glancing over his shoulder at the sound of someone landing behind him, the shinobi who had been sparring with Fukiko furrowing his brow at him before quickening his pace to catch up to Fukiko, casually putting his arm around her shoulders. He bent his head to say something, causing her to laugh and shake her head, resting her cheek affectionately against his arm. Kankuro puckered his lips at the both of them, accepting the pot she handed him. "Thank you."

Fukiko smiled, accepting his payment before frowning at his expression. "It's very good quality, I assure you. The same mixture our warriors used to use."

"Oh," Kankuro shrugged, opening the pot to look inside before shrugging. "That's not it - I didn't expect you to be a kunoichi - I know most of the shinobi..."

"Yeah, well, you probably know them from missions. We don't get those too often," Shinzui puckered his lips sourly.

Fukiko hit his arm lightly before putting the money in her pocket. "I'm sorry the pot isn't decorated, but I didn't think I'd have enough time-"

"It's okay, thank you." He nodded to the pot of them before continuing towards the entrance of the clan compound. Shinzui made a face after him. "Maybe we should have begged him for a job."

Fukiko shook her head. "He's not the one to ask. Besides, the world has been ravaged by the Fourth war - it's only a matter of time until we're given something with relative prestige to do, right?"

"It better be, or else all our practicing will be useless."

Fukiko laughed at his pouting, dodging easily as he tossed a shuriken, returning to her position on the roof, shifting into a fighting stance, the two of them performing above their clansmen, shadowed by the solemn towers of Suna.

_Ah, I've made some typos in the last chapter, I have to go back and finish it. I reread this twice, so hopefully I didn't miss much, if at all. I still feel rusty, hopefully I can get better. still without a plot - oh well. :D And thank you for the review._


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